Ghost of a Woman
by Julia Fractal
Summary: Would Moaning Myrtle truly have been better off if she survived to adulthood?  A brief and bleak look at Myrtle's career in the Ministry of Magic.


DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Ghost of a Woman**  
  
"The Ministry of Magic is like a giant beehive," an annoyingly perky witch announced at Myrtle's training session. "Although each of our individual labours may seem trivial or mundane, we can go home happy with the knowledge that we have contributed to the greater good of the Ministry and of the Wizarding World. Most importantly, we must remember that the Ministry is not only a workplace, but seeks to become a second family to its employees..."  
  
The sight of Ludo Bagman in his Wimbourne Wasps uniform certainly re- enforced the hive metaphor. Privately though, Myrtle thought that the Ministry was more like a warren with its labyrinthine passageways and lack of natural sunlight. The other employees roamed the hallways in chattering packs, gathered at the fountain as though it was a watering hole, and shared lunches and drinks and laughter. Although they may titter, gossip and even occasionally backstab, every last one of them belonged to the herd.  
  
Myrtle did not belong. She tried her best to be well liked, but only ended up nearly invisible. Perversely, she was almost nostalgic for the Hogwarts days when she had been constantly taunted and teased. Once, in a fit of despair, she locked herself in the lavatory and cried for most of the afternoon. Nobody glanced up when she returned to her desk, and the stack of parchments in her 'in' tray had grown three inches thicker.  
  
Myrtle was always the last person they remembered during promotions, and the first to be transferred when another department was short-staffed. She didn't mind too much. Paperwork was paperwork no matter which desk she sat behind.  
  
While working in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Myrtle had a brief encounter with Scott Bentley during the office Christmas party. His breath smelled like Firewhiskey and salmon paté, and he kept calling her 'Myra' no matter how many times she corrected him. Still, he was rumoured to be a shoo-in as the next head of the department, and the other women in her office were always giggling about how he looked just a tad like the handsome Seeker for the Tornadoes Quidditch team. Wordlessly, Myrtle had followed him into a coat closet. In the stifling darkness, it was easy to let him grope his way into her dress robes, pant into her ear, and leave a sticky stain on her slip.  
  
Three weeks into the new year, Myrtle finally worked up the courage to walk up to his desk and say 'Hello." For an agonizing month, she had mentally rehearsed every possible scenario for their second meeting, ranging from the blissful to the tragic. The only one she had not prepared for was the polite and blank expression on his face and his "Hello, how can I help you?"  
  
The next day, Myrtle requested a transfer.  
  
For years after that, Myrtle spent her lunch hours wandering along the twisting passageways of the Ministry. She preferred the less frequented corridors, where she sometimes chanced upon couples kissing, or deserted rooms where the air hung thick with dust and memories. Once, deep in the bowels of the Ministry, she found the way into a room with tiers of stairs that led to a crumbling archway hung with a tattered veil. As she drew closer, Myrtle could almost swear that she heard voices. She couldn't distinguish any words, only a soothing cadence that reminded her of the comforts of childhood and home. Tears were rolling down her face as Myrtle stepped onto the arch. Just as she was about to walk through, three men from the Department of Mysteries had burst into the room and forcibly dragged her out.  
  
The days went by in a haze of monotony, the years followed one after the other. As the decades passed, Myrtle could not sense herself growing older, merely more and more worn. She felt thin as parchment and transparent as glass, a ghost of a woman who could no longer recall what it felt like to be alive. The Ministry, Myrtle decided, was a living beast that swallowed her whole, ground her up, and spit her back out on a daily basis.  
  
Her own retirement took her by surprise. As Myrtle prepared to shuffle out of the Ministry doors for the last time, the only thing she regretted leaving behind was the archway and the promise of home that beckoned behind the fluttering veil.  
  
_The End_


End file.
